


Let Me Be Your Wings

by BambixRonno



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amputation, As if I'd have the guts, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Because i am a Clown who doesn't learn, Crowley doesn't know Aziraphale is an angel, Emotional Manipulation, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), I posted this first chapter instead of working on the rest of the fic, If you want me to tag anything just lmk, Implied/Referenced Amputation, Implied/referenced non-consensual body modification, It's all offscreen dw, Love the implication that any of my work will ever be beta'd, M/M, Miscommunication, Non-Consensual Body Modification, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25697050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BambixRonno/pseuds/BambixRonno
Summary: As punishment for giving away his flaming sword, Heaven takes Aziraphale's wings. He can get them back, though, so long as he works faithfully on Earth to earn their forgiveness. Trying to please Heaven is easier said than done, though, and his secret friendship with Crowley makes earning his redemption even more difficult.Especially since Crowley doesn't know he's an angel.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 87





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to "let me be your wings" from thumbelina once and went "perfect! Now let's make it Sad so I can make it work with ineffable husbands"
> 
> Also the decision to try present tense instead of past tense was probably a bad idea but by the time I realised that I was halfway through so yeet let's see how this goes

_ "Please, I just-" _

_ "You were given a flaming sword to guard the Eastern Gate, and to guard the Eastern Gate only. By giving it away, you directly disobeyed the Almighty's orders." _

_ "But - but I was just trying to help! Isn't that what we were asked to do? To show love and kindness to all of God's creatures?" _

_ "God cast them out of Eden for a reason. They are no longer worthy of those things." _

_ "I-I'm sorry. I just-" _

_ "You should be grateful the Almighty didn't make you Fall for this. We have chosen an alternative punishment, instead." _

_ "I… yes. Of course. What's it to be?" _

_ "…" _

_ "W-what are you doing?" _

_ "If you like the humans so much, then you can stay on Earth with them. Stop struggling, you don't want us to make a mess, do you?" _

_ "Wait, n-no! Please! Let go!" _

_ "You can have them back once you have repented and earned Heaven's forgiveness. Now stand still, this will only take a moment…" _

* * *

The murmurs of the crowd of people watching the strange proceedings fills the air, nearby onlookers speculating not-so-quietly on what Noah could possibly be doing. Two of every animal obediently make their way onto the large boat, with only the occasional animal needing to be pushed back into place. A few people quietly scoff to one another that Noah has finally lost his mind, but if Noah hears them, he doesn't let on.

Aziraphale stands at the front of the crowd, near the fence separating him from the animals, overseeing as much as he can from his place as a bystander. He wrings his hands nervously, glancing back and forth to watch the crowd and then the animals. Every now and then his eyes glance up at the sky expectantly before darting back down.

His instructions had been perfectly clear. Keep an eye on the construction of the Ark, make sure no one interferes, and prevent anyone aside from God's chosen ones from boarding. A nice, simple job. One that even he couldn't screw up. 

"Consider it a step closer to getting your wings back," Gabriel had said with a smile, clapping Aziraphale on the back. 

Aziraphale isn't an idiot. He knows why he's been given this task over any other. It's a test to see if he will disobey orders again, will go out of his way to save the humans God has damned. It's almost painful, watching so many humans stand around laughing at Noah, knowing he won't be able to save them when the storm comes, but this is a task he can't fail. He can't allow anyone else on the boat.

_ God's plans are ineffable,  _ Aziraphale reminds himself firmly.  _ Just because you can't see the reason, it doesn't mean there isn't one. _

There is a reason for all this. There  _ has  _ to be. He just has to  _ trust  _ Her.

His back twinges painfully.

"What's all this about?"

The voice startles Aziraphale; he didn't expect anyone to actually _ talk _ to him. Every other time he's been around humans, he's mainly been left alone. He'd figured this time would be the same. 

Apparently not. 

He glances at the person who approached him, just to make sure they're actually talking to him. The stranger is a man with dark, almost black clothing, and long red hair that reaches his shoulders. He's not looking at Aziraphale, too busy looking around in what appears to be fascination, but Aziraphale had caught him turning his head away when he faced him, like he was trying to pretend he wasn't watching him. No one else is looking at him, or even seems to recognise him. 

"What's all what about?" Aziraphale says politely. It's rather obvious what "this" the man is referring to, but he can't think of anything else to say. He's probably not supposed to be talking to mortals, anyway.

" _ This.  _ The whole 'building a big boat and filling it with a travelling zoo' thing." He emphasises his point with a large, vague gesture of his arms.

"Ah. Yes. Right. That." Aziraphale swallows, casting a quick glance around to see if there are any other angels nearby observing him. There aren't. "Well. Rumour has it God asked him to build it. Fill it with two of every animal."

"Oh? Who's saying that?"

"Noah. No one believes him, of course. Everyone's saying he's gone mad."

The man still doesn't look at him. He's constantly turning around, watching everything going on. "Huh. What other rumours are going around? Any about why God would ask someone to build a boat like this in the first place?"

Aziraphale picks at his fingernails, briefly glancing at the sky again. He's not supposed to tell anyone what's happening, just in case they try to make plans. But rumours about why are already spreading anyway, and Noah himself has told many people the reason he was asked to build the Ark, so what harm can it do? "According to Noah, God isn't pleased with the human race. Planning on wiping it out with a big storm."

Most humans had brushed off the rumour with a laugh, saying there was no way God would want all of humanity dead. This human doesn't seem to find it funny.  _ "Everyone?" _

Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably. "Well. It  _ is _ just a rumour. And God doesn't seem to want to wipe  _ everyone _ out." He gestures to Noah, who's still guiding all the animals onto the boat. "Noah, over there, his family, his sons, their wives, they'll all be fine."

The man still won't face him directly, but Aziraphale can tell by the creases on his face that he's not comforted by the words. "But they're  _ drowning _ everybody else?"

Aziraphale can't think of anything to say to that, so he doesn't.

"Not the kids. They can't kill kids," the man presses.

Aziraphale picks at his fingers and says nothing. The reminder of what he's been asked to allow to happen makes guilt sit heavily in his chest.

"Sounds like the kind of thing you'd expect a demon to do, not a god that's supposed to be all-loving," the man says.

Aziraphale isn't entirely sure if he's still talking to him, but he responds anyway. "It  _ is _ only a rumour."

"Yeah," the man mutters. "A rumour."

Aziraphale bites his lip and turns his attention back to the boat. One of Noah's sons is struggling to wrangle a lion back into line, and his brothers rush to assist him, abandoning the sections they were asked to supervise.

"Oi, Shem!" the man beside him yells. "That unicorn's gonna make a run for it-!"

Too late. The unicorn breaks away from the line and gallops away, too fast for anyone to catch up with it. Aziraphale bites back a sigh and turns to talk to the man again.

Then he sees it. His eyes. His yellow, snake slit eyes. 

Aziraphale's blood runs cold.

"Oh, it's too late. It's too late!" the man-shaped being yells to Noah's son, still squinting at the runaway unicorn. "Well, you've still got one of 'em!"

Above them, thunder crashes, and the rain Aziraphale has been waiting for finally begins to fall. The storm is starting.

"Well, great talking to you," the being says. "Good luck with the whole 'potential drowning' thing."

"Thank you, I suppose," Aziraphale says. He looks from the crowd to the animals to Noah and back again, refusing to make eye contact with the… the  _ thing _ beside him.

The being leaves without another word, and Aziraphale lets out a long, slow breath, slumping in relief. 

When he'd been permanently assigned to Earth, he had been warned that there was an agent of Hell still lurking about. A serpent, he'd been informed. The one that tempted Adam and Eve in the first place. He'd been told, over and over, to keep an eye out for this demon, to thwart any of his evil wiles, and, above all else, to not make contact with him. 

And, like an idiot, Aziraphale had just gone and told the enemy  _ everything. _

"Heaven help me," Aziraphale whispers to himself.

Around him, the rain continues to fall.

* * *

Aziraphale doesn't spot the demon until he's already by his right shoulder, leaning over to make conversation. 

"Think Pharaoh's finally gonna tell us what's been going on with his crazy dreams?"

Aziraphale keeps his eyes fixed firmly forward. He knows exactly what this is about. This is the moment Pharaoh will declare that Joseph has complete control over Egypt.

"I have no idea," he says instead, wringing his hands anxiously. Lying isn't very angelic, he's probably supposed to tell the demon it's none of his business, or just smite him on the spot, but he doesn't want to potentially start a fight around so many mortals. They're at the back of the crowd, so Aziraphale can run and draw the demon away if he needs to, but he doesn't want to risk it. If a fight breaks out, not only will people get hurt, but it will draw attention away from the event about to take place, and that's not what Aziraphale wants. And with no sword, he won't be able to protect himself anyway, much less  _ win. _

"It has to be big, whatever it is," the demon says. "Can't remember the last time this many people showed up to hear what Pharaoh has to say."

Aziraphale spares the demon the quickest glance he can manage. It looks like he's been disguising himself as a noble, but for how long, Aziraphale doesn't know. He hasn't  _ noticed  _ any demonic activity in Egypt over the last few years, but that doesn't mean it wasn't _ there. _ Temptations to foil Heaven's plans, perhaps? Encouraging Potiphar's wife to tempt and then frame Joseph like she had in order to get him thrown in prison, hoping it would prevent Heaven's plan from working? It _ did _ sound like the kind of potential interference a demon might come up with. 

"Personally, my money's on the 'crazy dreams' thing," the demon continues, either not noticing or not caring that Aziraphale hasn't replied. "Been causing a lot of upset, you know. Rumours about what they might mean. Probably best to get it out before they spiral out of control."

Aziraphale hums noncommittally, glancing nervously at the demon again. Why is he talking to him? Surely an angel would be the  _ last  _ person a demon would want to talk to. Maybe he's hoping to trick some information out of Aziraphale again, like he did in Mesopotamia? Getting information about divine plans from an angel would certainly be beneficial to Hell, so it would explain why he hasn't simply tried to destroy Aziraphale, but it's a risky move. Any  _ good _ angel would try to smite a demon on sight. Surely the risk of destruction outweighs whatever benefits Hell might get from receiving information from an angel?

Perhaps that was why he had refused to look at Aziraphale properly when they met. He was hoping Aziraphale wouldn't see his eyes and realise he's a demon.

Distantly, Aziraphale realises that Pharaoh has finally arrived to speak to the crowd. He only half listens as Pharaoh  _ finally _ announces he's giving Joseph control over Egypt, too busy keeping a watchful eye on the demon next to him in case he tries to do… something. He's not entirely sure what that  _ something _ might be, but he's hoping he'll know if he sees it. 

Whatever the  _ something _ is, the demon doesn't seem too interested in doing it. He drops their conversation to listen to Pharaoh speak, making little noises of interest or surprise. His eyes are completely fixed on Pharaoh, and he doesn't notice when Aziraphale turns his head slightly to get a better look at him. His face is surprisingly… expressive. Aziraphale would have thought a demon would be more guarded around an angel.

"Clever lad, isn't he?" the demon says once Pharaoh finishes his speech. "Working out those dreams like that. Seven years of famine, who'd have thought it?"

"Yes. Very clever indeed," Aziraphale says, still not taking his eyes off the demon.

"Pretty clever idea, too, storing excess food to deal with the famine," the demon continues, turning back to Aziraphale. "I think-"

Aziraphale realises too late that he's been staring, and the demon catches his eye before he can turn away. This is the first time he's had a chance to have a good look at those serpentine eyes, and he can't help but stare just a little. They aren't as ugly as he thought they'd be. If it weren't for the unusual colour and the slit pupils, they could almost be human eyes staring back at him, wide in shock and surprise and… fear…

_ Oh, _ Aziraphale realises.  _ He knows I know, now. _

"Shit," the demon mumbles, raising a hand to cover his eyes, even though it's obvious it's far too late. "Fuck, just… pretend you didn't see that… oh fuck, okay, hold on-"

The demon reaches out to him, and Aziraphale's stomach drops. He stumbles back, away from the hand, heart beginning to pound. Twice now this demon has spotted Aziraphale before Aziraphale spotted him, and he's likely only survived until now because the demon wanted to use him for information. He's weaponless and defenseless, and if the demon decides to kill him - which is looking more likely by the second, judging by the increasingly panicked look on his face - he has no way to fight back.

So Aziraphale does the only thing he  _ can _ do in this situation.

He runs.

He can hear the demon curse and give chase behind him, but he doesn't dare turn around. He picks up his pace, shoving past a young woman and accidentally knocking her over, and he feels bad, he really  _ does,  _ but he's too terrified to stop and help her, so he keeps running. He pushes his way through the crowd, turns in different directions at random, does everything he can think of to throw off his pursuer.

A sharp turn around the corner reveals the marketplace isn't far, and relief floods through Aziraphale's body. The marketplace is loud and crowded and confusing, even more so than the crowd of people who had come to listen to Pharaoh speak; the perfect place to hide. As soon as he reaches the crowd, he'll be able to disappear amongst the people, and slip away through a small street off to the side.

Aziraphale runs faster, feet pounding harshly against the ground. The edge of the crowd in the marketplace grows closer and closer. Almost there… almost there… almost-

A hand grabs him and pulls him into a small street.

Aziraphale starts to scream, but the other hand is quickly clamped firmly over his mouth to muffle his voice. He struggles wildly in the strong hold, twisting his body and trying to strike the demon - for who else would be strong enough to hold him still? - with his elbows or hands or anything else that can reach.

"Shush! Stop struggling!" the demon hisses. He tightens his hold on Aziraphale, but he's clearly struggling to keep him still.

Aziraphale sobs in panic behind the demon's hand, still thrashing to get free. He can hear his heart pounding in his ears, sweat streaming down his face as his feet kick helplessly.

"I said stop struggling! You're going to draw attention!"

Aziraphale redoubles his efforts, flailing wildly, hoping the demon will lose his grip. Tears prick his eyes, slowly sliding down his face.

"Oh, for the love of-" the demon twists awkwardly, pushing and shoving back against Aziraphale, until finally he's pinned against a wall, both of his hands trapped in the demon's one, his mouth still covered. " _ There. _ Now calm  _ down _ , I'm not going to hurt you."

Aziraphale doesn't believe him. He keeps struggling, but the demon has the upper hand now, and it's clearly taking him less effort to keep Aziraphale pinned to the wall than it is for Aziraphale to worm his way out of his grip. Another frightened sob escapes him, and he squeezes his eyes shut so he won't have to watch whatever the demon has planned for him.

"Okay," the demon breathes, panting slightly. "Okay. Here we go. Shh, shh, I'm not gonna hurt you, just stand still…"

_ Stand still, this will only take a moment… _

Aziraphale screams behind the hand, kicking even harder than before. He manages to catch the demon in the leg, but despite the grunt of pain he doesn't let go, pressing Aziraphale against the wall even harder.

Oh god, he's going to die here. 

"Shh, shush,  _ shush, _ you're okay, I don't want to hurt you, I just need to-"

Aziraphale's sobbing now, wet tears staining his face, great heaving gasps leaving him breathless and dizzy. His back burns like it hasn't in millennia, like he's back at Eden, wings forcefully spread out and exposed, the glint of a Heavenly blade getting closer and closer…

He screams again, only for a dirty piece of fabric to appear out of nowhere and be shoved roughly in his mouth.

"There," the demon sighs in relief, finally removing his hand from Aziraphale's mouth. "That's better. Now just hold still, I'll let you go in a second, just let me…"

Aziraphale shakes his head violently, still sobbing, as the demon reaches for him again. He tries to jerk away, but only succeeds in banging his head against the wall, and he wheezes in pain. No matter how hard he tries, he can't spit out the fabric gagging him. 

"You're gonna be fine," the demon says, resting a cool hand on Aziraphale's forehead. "I just need to make sure you can't go blabbing to anyone about what I am…"

Aziraphale's breath hitches, tears falling freely. He cries quietly behind the balled up piece of fabric, trembling violently as he waits for the demon to kill him, wishing he could go home, wishing he had his wings, wishing he could go flying just one last time. 

But nothing happens. 

"What the fuck?" the demon mutters. He presses his hand more insistently against Aziraphale's forehead, and finally Aziraphale can feel it. A small thread of demonic power searching for something, trying to influence his mind. He pushes it away. 

The demon's scowling now, pushing the thread harder, but Aziraphale keeps pushing back. If he must die, he at least wants his mind to be his own.

The demon makes a third attempt, but this time when Aziraphale pushes back, he freezes. His eyes flick to Aziraphale's, seemingly searching for something. Whatever he finds makes him push himself away from Aziraphale, backing away like  _ he's _ the one in danger.

Aziraphale's knees give out beneath him, and he slides to the ground, shaking. He should run, but his limbs feel heavy and won't cooperate, too weak to hold him up.

The demon eyes him warily, maintaining a safe distance. "What are you?"

Aziraphale whimpers. The demon snaps his fingers, and the fabric in his mouth disappears.

"What are you?" the demon repeats. "Why can't I wipe your memories?"

What?

"W-wipe my memories?" Aziraphale chokes out. "What do you mean,  _ wipe my memories? _ "

"I  _ mean _ I don't want you blabbing to the next person you meet that one of the nobles has snake eyes!" the demon hisses. "Do you know how hard it is to get people to not look? So I'll ask you again, _ what are you? _ "

Aziraphale can't find the words to reply. One would think it's fairly  _ obvious _ what he is. Angel minds are  _ much _ harder to influence than human minds, after all.

The demon doesn't seem to agree. He edges forward, inhaling deeply, then lets a small, forked tongue slip past his lips to flicker in the air.

"You don't smell like an angel," he says at last. "Well, you do a little, now that I'm looking for it, but so do other humans that come into contact with angels. I didn't think you were - I can smell an angel a mile away, you know, there's no way one would be able to get that close to me without me knowing - but when I tried to wipe your memories just now, I wasn't too sure…" He frowns, tilting his head curiously. "Now that I think about it, you look familiar. Have we met before?"

Aziraphale swallows. "I don't believe we have."

"Are you sure? Because I swear I recognise you from somewhere."

"I'm  _ quite _ sure."

The demon looks thoughtful for a long moment, rocking back and forth on his heels, and although every instinct is screaming at Aziraphale to  _ run,  _ he can't bring himself to get up.

"Aha!" The demon snaps his fingers. "Mesopotamia! You were the guy I talked to about that boat!"

"I - I assure you I don't know what you mean. I've never met you before in my life-"

"Are you cursed?"

"E-excuse me?"

"Are you cursed?" the demon repeats. "Not by one of my lot, of course, I'm the only demon up here, and I'm pretty sure I'd remember cursing a human… was it Heaven? It was Heaven, wasn't it?" He winces in… sympathy? "You poor bastard. What did you do to piss off Heaven so bad they cursed you with immortality?"

Aziraphale's mouth opens and closes like a fish. No matter how hard he tries, he can't think of anything to say. This is supposed to be his end, his untimely death at the hands of a demon. He isn't supposed to sit here and listen to him ramble about curses and immortality. 

"Don't wanna talk about it, huh? Hey, that's fine, I get it." The demon seems calmer now, approaching him with a cool confidence Aziraphale has never seen anyone possess. "Sorry about scaring the shit out of you, I just thought… you know, you might run screaming to tell everyone about my eyes. You get why I didn't want that to happen, right?"

Speechless, Aziraphale can only nod.

"Right. Speaking of, how come I can't wipe your memories? I've never had trouble with a human's mind, after all."

"I'm an agent of Heaven." That… isn't quite what he meant to say. He's supposed to say  _ I'm an angel of the Lord, and thus it is my duty to thwart your evil ways before they can interfere with divine plans, so if you wouldn't mind standing still so I can smite you, that would be lovely. _

"Ah. I heard Heaven had someone working for them on Earth, but I thought it was an angel. Conned you into working for them, did they? Cursed you for pissing them off then promised salvation if you do as they say?"

Despite the circumstances, Aziraphale can't help but feel indignant. "They  _ do _ give humans salvation! That's not a con!"

The demon rolls his eyes. "Sure, if you say so. That explains the angel smell, at least. And why I couldn't touch your memories. Pointless having an agent on Earth if a demon can just take control of their mind."

He holds his hand out to Aziraphale to help him up. For some reason, Aziraphale takes it.

"What's your name?" the demon asks as he hauls him to his feet.

"... Aziraphale."

"Aziraphale, huh? Sounds like an angel's name. Did Heaven make you change it? Sounds like the kind of thing they'd do." He gives Aziraphale's hand a firm shake before letting go and taking a step back. "I'm Crawly."

"Crawly." The name feels odd on his tongue. All these years of not having a name for the mysterious agent of Hell working on Earth, and now the demon just…  _ gives _ it to him, just like that. "It's… nice to meet you."

"Likewise." Crawly tilts his head again. His stare is unnerving. "Well, I'd love to stay and chat, but I've got stuff to do. I'll see you around, Aziraphale."

He brushes past Aziraphale and heads for the centre of the town, then pauses and glances back. "Hey, would you mind keeping the whole… snake eyes thing to yourself? One immortal fucked over by Heaven to another?"

For some inexplicable reason, Aziraphale nods.

"Great. See you later!"

And with that he was gone, leaving Aziraphale standing in the street staring at nothing like the past ten minutes never happened. 

Swallowing thickly, Aziraphale quickly dries his tears with his sleeve before taking a deep breath and stepping out of the small street. 

If Crawly doesn't realise Aziraphale is an angel, then Aziraphale certainly isn't going to be the one to correct him.

* * *

Listening to Jesus cry out and beg God to forgive the ones causing his pain is one of the most difficult things Aziraphale has had to do since the Ark, but he does it anyway. Gabriel had been very clear in his instructions that Aziraphale was not to intervene under any circumstances, or there would be dire consequences. He hadn't elaborated on what those consequences would be, and Aziraphale hadn't asked. 

"It's for the greater good," Gabriel had explained with a bit too much eagerness to be genuine. "God's orders. Besides, weren't  _ you _ the one who wanted to have mercy on those humans in the first place? You should be  _ thanking _ Her for this."

Aziraphale hadn't replied.

So here he is, watching God's son be nailed to a cross, a crowd of people surrounding him, and not one person daring to intervene.

"One would think God would at least want to keep  _ him _ safe, above anyone else."

Aziraphale glances at Crawly, no longer phased by her suddenly appearing at his side out of seemingly nowhere. Ever since Egypt, they've been bumping into each other more and more frequently.

"Surprised you're here," Crawly continues. "Would've thought they'd at least send an angel to keep an eye on things." She frowns. "Guess they can't even be bothered to do that. Or to come smirk at the poor bugger themselves. Suppose that's what you're here for."

"I'm not here to smirk."

"Well, Heaven put him on there, and you're working for them."

Aziraphale feels a spark of irritation. "I'm not consulted on policy decisions, Crawly."

Crawly pauses and gives him a long, considering look. "No," she says. "I suppose you're not."

The hammer bangs against another nail. Jesus cries out again.

"I've changed it, by the way," Crawly says, as casually as one can manage in such a situation.

"Changed what?"

"My name." She pulls a face. "'Crawly' just wasn't really doing it for me. Bit too… squirming-at-your-feet-ish."

"But aren't you a snake?" He tries to think of any other demons he's heard about recently that could be her. "So what is it now? Mephistopheles? Asmodeus?"

"Crowley."

_ Crowley.  _ It's… quite a nice name, actually. Suits her _ much _ better than Crawly.

Ahead of them, the hammer keeps coming down.

"Did you, uh… ever meet him?" Aziraphale asks, if only to try and distract himself from Jesus' pained gasps and moans.

"Yes. Seemed a very bright young man," Craw-Crowley says. "I showed him all the kingdoms of the world."

That… is news. Aziraphale wasn't expecting her to say yes. He'd figured a demon wouldn't want anything to do with someone as holy as God's son. "Why?"

She shrugs. "He's a carpenter from Galilee. His travel opportunities are limited."

The hammer comes down again. This time, Jesus almost screams.

"That's gotta hurt," Crowley mutters, wincing in sympathy. "What was it he said that got everyone so upset?"

Aziraphale swallows. His back aches. "Be kind to each other."

"Oh, yeah," Crowley says, voice grave. "That'll do it."

Neither of them speak again as the cross is raised, listening in silence as Jesus howls and wails in agony. They watch as he sobs and whimpers and pleads quietly for forgiveness on behalf of others. Aziraphale can hear a woman crying - his mother, most likely - as Jesus' sobs and whimpers and pleas slowly quieten, until they're replaced with ragged, shallow breaths. After what feels like an eternity, those fall silent, too.

Aziraphale looks away as Jesus' mother begins wailing loudly, crying out against the injustice of her son's death. A long, agonising, torturous death he was forced to suffer because he had dared to be kind, even to those society have decided don't deserve kindness. 

_ Especially  _ those society have decided don't deserve kindness.

Aziraphale's back aches. 

"I should get going," Crowley says at last. "Don't want to be here if any angels come to pick him up. See you around, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale nods, but doesn't turn to watch her leave. He stays exactly where he is until the family is finally ready to lay Jesus to rest.

* * *

"You have sought the Black Knight, foolish one. But you have found your death."

The words, Aziraphale is sure, are supposed to be much more alarming. But it's hard to be alarmed when he recognises the voice under the helmet.

"Is that you under there, Crawly?"

_ "Crowley," _ the voice corrects. Armoured hands lift the visor on the helmet, revealing two bright, familiar snake eyes.

Of course. Of  _ course  _ Crowley is the Black Knight. Aziraphale isn't even sure why he's surprised.

"What the hell are you playing at?" he asks, a bit sharper than he intends, trying to keep his voice down so the humans can't hear him as clearly. 

"It's alright, lads. I know him. He's alright," Crowley says dismissively to the men behind him, not even bothering to look at them. "I'm here spreading foment."

"What is that, some kind of porridge?"

" _ No _ . I'm, y'know, fomenting dissent and discord. King Arthur's been spreading too much peace and tranquility, so I'm here-" Crowley waves his arm vaguely- "you know, fomenting."

Aziraphale bites back a sigh. Typical. "Well, I'm meant to be… fomenting peace."

"Let me guess, Heaven's orders?"

Aziraphale glares at him. 

"Just saying. I still don't know why you take orders from the people who cursed you in the first place. All they're doing is making you do shitty work in damp places. If you ask me, you'd be better off telling them where to shove it."

"It  _ is _ rather damp, I'll give you," Aziraphale concedes. "But I can't tell them to…  _ shove it,  _ as you so eloquently put. It doesn't work like that."

"Sure it does," Crowley scoffs. "I did it."

"Yes, and look where you are now."

"Not under Heaven's thumb, that's for sure."

"No, but you're still in the exact same place I am, carrying out orders from Hell."

"Not that it seems to be doing much, considering you're here," Crowley says. "All we're doing is cancelling each other out. We could've just stayed home."

"No we couldn't," Aziraphale says. "What would we tell Head Office?"

Crowley shrugs. "Same thing we're gonna tell them in the report anyway."

Aziraphale's chest tightens at the idea. "But… but that would be  _ lying. _ "

"Ehhh, possibly, but the end result would be the same," Crowley says dismissively, like lying to Head Office isn't one of the worst things either of them could possibly do.

"But my dear fellow, they-" Aziraphale searches desperately for a way to explain exactly  _ why _ it's such a terrible idea, since Crowley doesn't seem to  _ get it-  _ "well, they'd  _ check." _

Crowley gives him an unimpressed look.

"Michael's a… bit of a stickler," Aziraphale tries to explain. "And you don't want to get Gabriel upset with you."  _ Underestimation of the century.  _

Crowley scoffs. "When was the last time anyone in Heaven actually bothered to check up on you in person? At least a millennium, am I right?"

Crowley has a point, it  _ has _ been a long time since Heaven has checked up on him. All of his orders come from notes, now, and he hasn't seen another angel since Jesus' death. But the mere  _ thought _ of lying to his superiors makes his back sting and his chest twist anxiously. 

He  _ can't _ disobey Heaven again. He  _ needs _ their forgiveness.

"Look, I know what they're like up there. So long as they get the paperwork, Heaven won't  _ care _ what you're doing," Crowley says. "As long as you're seen to be doing  _ something  _ every now and again, they'll leave you alone."

" _ No.  _ Absolutely  _ not. _ " His chest feels tight at the words alone. " _ You  _ may be willing to risk punishment so you don't have to work as hard, but  _ I'm _ not, and I'm shocked you'd imply I  _ would.  _ We're not having this conversation, not another word!"

He storms off back to his horse, and Crowley doesn't try to stop him.

His chest is still tight when he gets home.

* * *

By far the most time consuming part of carrying out orders from Heaven is actually travelling to where he needs to go. Most angels would simply  _ fly _ to their next task, but that's not exactly an option for Aziraphale, so he has to take the human way. Which is usually a slow, extremely unpleasant journey.

So of  _ course _ Heaven asked him to perform a miracle on the other side of the country.

Sighing, Aziraphale checks that he has all the necessary supplies for the journey. He's already checked about three times, and  _ admittedly _ he may only be doing it to put off the trip for just a few more minutes, but he'd hate to get halfway there only to realise he's forgotten something.

Or that's the excuse he's using, anyway.

"Going on holiday, or something?"

"Oh, I wish," Aziraphale sighs, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hands. Normally seeing Crowley again would be delightful, but his journey ahead will be so stressful he can practically feel the headache it will cause him already _.  _ "I need to go to the other side of the country to perform a miracle, but it's  _ such  _ a long way, and I-"

"You can perform miracles?"

Oh dear. He forgot Crowley doesn't know he's an angel.

"Well, yes," Aziraphale says, scrambling desperately for an excuse. "You see, Heaven has… granted me a limited amount of… magic. Just enough to perform any blessings or miracles they require."

"Huh. I didn't know that," Crowley says. He circles Aziraphale, a habit he's picked up for reasons Aziraphale can't quite figure out. "I guess it makes sense. Upstairs have used humans to perform miracles before. I thought they just… sent you to keep an eye on things they don't want my side screwing up. Or got you to preach on their behalf."

"Yes, well, they decided I would be more useful if I could perform miracles, as well," Aziraphale says. "It really is only enough to carry out the tasks they give me, though."

"Uh huh. What's the miracle?"

Aziraphale hesitates for a moment. He really  _ shouldn't _ be telling a demon about Heaven's plans, but… well, Crowley has never directly interfered with his work unless it contradicts Hell's orders. What harm could it do? "This awful plague is taking a toll on a lot of people, and they've been getting frightfully angry at the Church. So Heaven have asked me to pop over and heal a few of the sick, to try and… encourage them to have faith again."

Crowley hums, rocking on his heels. "Where're they sending you?"

"Hampshire," Aziraphale says, eyeing Crowley suspiciously. "Why?"

"Just curious. Coincidentally, I'm meant to be heading south, too. I was thinking we could travel together."

"Travel together?"

"Sure. Why not? Got to be better than travelling alone."

Aziraphale thinks about it. He  _ hasn't  _ been looking forward to travelling alone, and demon or not, Crowley is always such pleasant company. And if he's heading south  _ anyway… _

A note appears before Aziraphale can take Crowley up on his offer, and he fumbles to catch it before the wind blows it away. Frowning, he unfolds the note and starts to read, his heart sinking with every word.

"What's wrong?"

Aziraphale swallows. "It's… orders from Heaven. They want me to head north for a blessing of the utmost importance."

"I thought they wanted you to head south?"

"They  _ do.  _ They want me to do both."

"Well that sucks. Could've had the decency to tell you earlier." Crowley shrugs. "Nothing you can do about it now, I guess. Come on, let's go, shouldn't take you too long to reach Hampshire if we set off now."

Aziraphale's hands clench around the note. "I need to perform this blessing within three days."

Crowley pauses, raising an eyebrow at the note. "And they're only telling you _ now? _ "

Aziraphale swallows thickly and nods.

"Alright, fine, we'll head north first, you can do this  _ extremely important blessing _ , then we'll set off for Hampshire."

"No," Aziraphale says, voice tight. "I… those miracles in Hampshire need to be done by the end of the week."

"... What?"

"They want me to do both," Aziraphale chokes out. "They want me to do both, and I can't…"

Aziraphale covers his face with his hands, trembling violently. Heaven had been very adamant when they insisted that the miracles in Hampshire need to be done within the week, and the note says they still expect that to be done. They had  _ also _ made it perfectly clear that it is in his best interests to not fail under any circumstances if he wants their forgiveness, and while that  _ isn't  _ explicitly mentioned in the note, the warning is perfectly clear. 

Any other angel wouldn't have a problem. They could just fly to Hampshire and back. But Aziraphale  _ can't, _ they  _ know  _ he can't. If he didn't know any better, he'd say they're deliberately giving him a test they  _ know _ he can't pass.

There's no way he can perform both the blessing and the miracle in time.

"Oh, fuck, are you okay - gimme that note, what the fuck did they say-" Crowley snatches the note from Aziraphale's hand, frowning down at it as he skims through it. "'Please be sure to meet the deadline for both of these tasks, as you are fully aware of the consequences that shall take place if you fail.' What the fuck does that even mean?"

Aziraphale sniffs and tries to wipe his watering eyes. He doesn't know how to respond to that, so he stays quiet.

"This is ridiculous," Crowley seethes. He crumbles the note into a ball, then sets it on fire. "How the fuck do they expect you to do two things at once? It's not like you have wings, you can't  _ fly _ there, so what the fuck do they expect you to do? Don't they know  _ anything _ about how mortals have to get around up here? Typical fucking angels, inconsiderate bastards, the lot of them…"

Aziraphale bites his lip and stares at the ground, picking at his nails as Crowley continues to rant. His eyes burn with tears as he tries desperately to think of what to do, but his mind is drawing a blank. He can only do one or the other. There's no way he can perform both the blessing and the miracle in time, so he needs to figure out which is more important. The extremely important blessing that popped up at the last minute? Or the miracle he already agreed to do? Which makes him look more reliable? Which makes him look  _ worthy? _

Every mission he's set is a test. If he gets this wrong, he may never get his wings back.

A shaky sob slips past the tightness in his throat.

"Oh, fuck _ ,  _ don't cry, Aziraphale. Come on, it's just a stupid miracle, they'll get over it-"

"It's not," Aziraphale gasps through his tears. "It's not, they won't, you don't understand-"

"Hey, hey,  _ hey-" _

"I can't  _ do it, _ I need to do it, but I  _ can't, _ what am I supposed to do-"

"Breathe, Aziraphale," Crowley says. He sounds just the slightest bit desperate. "Just breathe."

He doesn't need to breathe, but Crowley doesn't know that, so he obeys, taking deep, shaky breaths through his mouth. Crowley murmurs soothing encouragement every now and then, but otherwise stays silent as he waits for Aziraphale to calm down. 

"What am I supposed to do?" Aziraphale finally whispers.

Crowley doesn't speak for a moment, and Aziraphale doesn't think he's going to. But then, voice ever so slightly hesitant, he says, "I think I might have an idea."

"You… you do?"

"Yeah. I'm headed south for this temptation anyway, right? And Hampshire isn't really that far from where I need to go. I could do the miracle for you."

Aziraphale wasn't expecting  _ that. _ "Do it…  _ for _ me? Are demons even allowed to do that?"

Crowley shrugs. "Probably not."

"But… but won't Hell find out?"

"Hell won't notice  _ shit. _ It's not like they track the miracles we perform."

"They don't?"

"Course not. Why would they? So long as I do the stuff they ask me to, they don't care what I do up here."

"Oh," Aziraphale says quietly. "It's not like that in Heaven."

"Yeah, thought that might be the case. Bastards Up There always were controlling pricks." Crowley scowls at the mention of the other angels in Heaven, but then he focuses back on Aziraphale and he softens. "Heaven won't find out, either. If you let me help."

Aziraphale shakes his head. "They will. I appreciate the offer, but I can't let you do that. Heaven… wouldn't be pleased if they found out I gave a demon any information about my missions."

"But they won't find out," Crowley says. "They aren't going to  _ care  _ how it gets done, so long as they can see it  _ is  _ done. They won't be watching."

Aziraphale looks down at his hands, which are still picking at his nails. Crowley is wrong, they  _ will _ be watching, because this is an impossible test, and Gabriel will be watching to see if he screws up.

"I'll be careful," Crowley says, and this time there's a hint of pleading in his voice. "They won't be watching you  _ specifically,  _ they'll be watching the results. I promise, no one will find out it was me. If they question why there was a demonic presence in Hampshire, you can just say I tried to ruin your plans and failed."

Aziraphale bites his lip. It's a tempting offer, and his only option if he wants to get both done, because there's no way he can do both tasks on his own, but temptation is Crowley's  _ job.  _ As an angel, Aziraphale is supposed to resist temptation at all costs.

"Come on, Aziraphale," Crowley says softly. "You go do your blessing, and let me take care of your miracle."

Aziraphale glances up. "You'd really do that for me?"

"Of course I would. You're my friend." Crowley holds out his hand. "Let me  _ help." _

_ It's a terrible idea,  _ Aziraphale tells himself, anxiety twisting in his gut.  _ It's too dangerous. Heaven and Hell will be furious if they find out.  _

But what other choice does he have?

Aziraphale reaches out and hesitantly shakes Crowley's hand.

He expects to feel… something,  _ anything, _ that might feel like he's being bound to Crowley, that makes him feel heavy and guilty for making a deal with a demon. But there's nothing. No invisible chain shackled around his wrist, no bite of demonic power nipping at his being, no sudden drops in temperature chilling him to the bone. The only thing he can feel is Crowley's skin against his, cool and smoother than he'd expected. 

Crowley lets go of his hand, grinning at him. Aziraphale still can't feel anything damning. "Glad you agree. I'd better get going, then, if I want to meet that deadline of yours. I'll see you around, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale nods wordlessly, his hand falling to his side as he watches Crowley walk away. He stares after him long after he's gone, the memory of Crowley's hand in his still fresh in his mind. 

This is dangerous. If Heaven finds out what he's just done, the consequences will be much more severe than never getting his wings back. He could be put to death. He could be sentenced to extinction. He could  _ Fall. _

And yet he can't bring himself to regret it. Not when Crowley unknowingly gave him a chance to save his wings.

Feeling lighter than he has in a long time, Aziraphale gathers his things and heads north.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes all u can do is look at how long you've taken to update, say "lol yikes", and move on. This does not bode well for chapter 3.
> 
> Admittedly I'm not very happy with this chapter, but to be fair, I can't remember the last time I was happy with ANY of my writing, so this will have to do
> 
> Soz

_"Really_ now, this is quite unnecessary," Aziraphale huffs. The witchfinder ignores him, yanking on the ropes tying him to the stake to make them tighter. A crowd of people surround them, chanting "burn the witch" over and over.

This is _ridiculous_. All he did was defend a young lady being chased by witchfinders, and now he's tied to a stake and being accused of being a witch. Him! An angel, of all people, accused of being a witch and making pacts with the Devil! Aziraphale would laugh if it weren't such an inconvenience.

At least they released the young lady. He just wishes they'd dropped the accusations altogether, instead of shifting them onto _him._ The paperwork alone will be a _nightmare_ to deal with. 

He sighs in exasperation as the witchfinder addresses the crowd, boasting about how he managed to "courageously confront and expose the witch" by finding the "Devil's Mark" on his back. Well, it was a nice body while it lasted. He only hopes his next one is just as comfortable as this. Ideally, he'd like to have the same one back, but the angels in the corporation department don't really like him, so-

_"Snake!"_

The screech cuts through the chatter of the crowd, replacing the chanting with screaming. The humans Aziraphale assumes are closest to the snake push and shove one another in their attempts to get away, and the ones further away are almost trampled in the confusion and panic. Several people trip or fall and struggle to climb back to their feet. Some look confused by the chaos and incoherent yelling, but they either slip away once they decide they don't want to take their chances, or join the hysterical panic. Even the witchfinder pauses, unsure if he's supposed to continue now he's quickly losing his audience. Aziraphale furrows his brows. One tiny snake can't _possibly_ cause this much chaos, can it?

Then he catches a glimpse of it, and he understands. The snake is _enormous,_ far bigger than any snake he's ever seen. It's seemingly unbothered by the crowd threatening to trample it, and swiftly slithers directly towards them. 

The witchfinder pales as the snake gets closer, slowly backing away. The snake slithers between Aziraphale and the witchfinder, hissing quietly.

"A familiar!" the witchfinder cries. He brandishes the torch towards the snake as if to show it off, but the crowd is gone, no longer interested in the execution or how their "courageous" witchfinder will deal with this.

The snake hisses louder, rearing up and baring its fangs. Sweat drips down the witchfinder's face, but he sets his jaw and raises the torch again.

For a long moment, both of them are very still.

Then the witchfinder swings.

The torch never finds its target. The snake strikes just as it starts to come down. Aziraphale expects it to bite the witchfinder, but it clamps its jaws around the wood instead, inches from the witchfinder's fingers. He lurches back, letting go of the torch as he stumbles over his own feet to get away. When he looks up, his jaw drops at the sight of the snake wielding his torch.

The snake hisses again, and flings the torch back at the witchfinder. It lands by his feet, and there's a familiar sliver of magic as the flames on the torch flicker and sets the witchfinder's trousers alight.

The witchfinder screams, stumbling away from the torch and frantically patting his trousers to get the flames to go out. He shoots one last terrified look at the snake, then flees like the crowd already had the sense to do, still trying to put out the flames.

"Good riddance," Crowley says, shifting back into her human shape. She folds her arms and glares after the witchfinder, scowling.

Aziraphale stares, just a little. She's a _mess._ Her dress is crumpled and covered in grass stains, and her hair is tangled, the clumps of mud stuck in her hair large enough to be visible even from where Aziraphale is standing. She looks like she clawed her way out of the ground, and yet he can't take his eyes off her. As filthy as she is, she still looks mesmerising. Must be her demonic charm.

"Was setting his trousers on fire really necessary?" Aziraphale says at last.

"He had it coming. He'll face much worse in Hell." She turns to Aziraphale. She's still wearing the glasses she had at the Globe Theatre, so he can't see her eyes, but the rest of her face visibly softens when she looks at him. "Let's get you out of there, yeah?"

"Please do. These ropes aren't exactly comfortable."

Crowley snorts. She clambers up the pile of wood and starts to untie him. "Sorry I took so long. Got discorporated. Only just got back."

"Discorporated?" How on _Earth_ had Crowley managed to be so careless she got _discorporated?_

"What happens when demons get killed on Earth," Crowley explains. Oh, that's right, he's not supposed to know about discorporation yet. "This body isn't my true form, y'know. Demons working on Earth get a body to help us blend in, and if it gets destroyed, we get sent back to Hell until we get a new one."

"Well how on Earth did you manage to get discorporated? You're normally so careful to cover up the whole… demon thing."

"Same way you nearly went, actually. Got called a witch by some arsehole who couldn't take no for an answer. They hung me, though. The whole 'burning me alive' thing didn't really work out for them." She unties the last of the knots, and the ropes fall away. "There."

"You should have called me," Aziraphale says, rubbing his wrists to try and get the blood flowing again. "I would have tried to help."

"Call you how? Can't exactly teleport a message to you, and even if I could, you'd've never got there in time."

"I-I don't know! You're the demon, I'm sure you could have figured something out."

"How noble." Crowley grins at him. "Next time I'm in trouble, I'll try to think of something."

"See that you do," Aziraphale says, taking Crowley's offered hand and letting her help him down.

"You can be my own personal guardian angel," she says teasingly.

Aziraphale's heart leaps into his throat. He stumbles over the wood, barely registering Crowley catching him and telling him to be careful. Does she know? Has she figured it out?

"A-angel?"

"Yeah. 'Cause, y'know, you work for Heaven. You're like, I dunno, an honorary angel."

"O-oh." He lets out a breath. She doesn't know, thank goodness.

"Why? Do you not like it?"

"No, no! It's fine! It just… took me by surprise is all. I don't mind."

"Okay, if you say so." She grabs his wrist, and his heart jumps again. "Come on, angel. I saw this new restaurant on my way up, I think you're gonna love it. I've heard it's to die for."

Aziraphale rolls his eyes at the grin she shoots him, but allows her to pull him along anyway, still trying to calm his racing heart.

* * *

In hindsight, his current predicament is probably at least a little bit his own fault. He'd heard rumours about the things happening in Paris, of course, and had he taken the time to really _think_ about that, he likely wouldn't have bothered making the trip until things calmed down.

And yet here he is, chained up in a little cell listening to the cries and screams and cheers of the people outside, as the executioner in front of him talks about the _honour_ of dying at his hands, and has the _audacity_ to try and touch Aziraphale's clothes. Just touch them, with no regard for how expensive they may be!

_"Animals,"_ Aziraphale huffs in frustration.

" _Animals_ don't kill each other with clever machines, angel. Only your lot do that."

Aziraphale smiles involuntarily at that lovely, familiar voice, warmth blooming in his chest. _"Crowley."_ He turns eagerly - it's been quite a while since he last saw his friend - and stops short. "Oh, good _lord."_

It isn't the way Crowley is lounging dramatically, as though he's trying to impress someone. It isn't the hair, although that certainly isn't the most _flattering_ style Aziraphale has seen on him. It's the _clothes,_ hideous in such a way that _no one_ should look good in them, and it's completely unfair that Crowley _does._ It has to be the result of some kind of miracle. Aziraphale will accept no other excuse for those clothes - if they can even be called that - looking good on Crowley.

"What the deuce are you doing locked up in the Bastille?" Crowley asks, slightly irritated. "I thought you were opening a bookshop."

"Well, I _was._ I got peckish."

"... Peckish."

"Well, if you _must_ know, it was the crepes," Aziraphale says, sitting back down on the stool. "Can't get decent ones anywhere but Paris. And the brioche."

"So you just popped across the channel during a revolution because you wanted something to nibble?" Crowley's voice is thick with judgement. "Dressed like that?"

"I have _standards,_ " Aziraphale huffs, eyes flicking over Crowley's clothes once more. He really, really wishes he could change his outfit. It's _distracting._

"I'm almost impressed you even managed to get over here in those clothes," Crowley says. "How long did it take until they dragged you here?"

Aziraphale purses his lips and doesn't answer. It was an embarrassingly short amount of time, but he doesn't want Crowley to know that, even if he _does_ think Aziraphale is a human. 

"Heaven really needs to give you a raise," Crowley continues. "You wouldn't be in this situation if they just let you have more miracles. Surely replacing you if you kick the bucket will take more effort than just giving you more magic."

"Yes, well, they believe scarcity is a good thing, with these kinds of things," Aziraphale says. "Stops people taking things for granted, and all that."

In truth he'd been reprimanded just last month for performing too many _frivolous miracles,_ and he'd decided he would rather avoid receiving another note from Gabriel about the issue if he can help it. He _does_ need to keep his superiors happy if he wants to get his wings back, after all. But Crowley doesn't know about that.

"Well, you're lucky I was in the area."

"I suppose I am. Why _are_ you here?"

Crowley shrugs. "Hell sent me a commendation for outstanding job performance."

Aziraphale gapes at him, shooting to his feet. "So all this is _your_ demonic work?"

"No! Your lot thought it up themselves. Nothing to do with me." Crowley rolls his eyes behind his infernal glasses. "What is it with you humans and blaming everything on demons? You do enough evil on your own, you don't need any help." 

Aziraphale softens, feeling slightly guilty about the accusation already. He knows this kind of thing isn't Crowley's style, but one can never be too sure what Hell will assign him.

Crowley snaps his fingers, and the shackles around Aziraphale's wrists fall to the ground. Aziraphale rubs his wrists, casting Crowley a grateful glance. Warmth blossoms in his chest again.

"Well, I suppose I should say thank you. For the... rescue."

"Don't say that," Crowley warns. "If my people hear I rescued an agent of Heaven, I'll be the one in trouble. And trust me, you don't want to know what Hell does to demons that are in trouble."

Aziraphale's stomach twists uncomfortably, but he tries to ignore it. "Well, I'm very grateful, either way. What about if I buy you lunch?"

"Not looking like that, you're not," Crowley says, and Aziraphale just _knows_ he's rolling his eyes again. "Come here, I'll just-"

He gestures vaguely, and Aziraphale's clothes change to the same outfit as the executioner. When he turns back, he sees the man being dragged off by two Frenchmen, now wearing the clothes that got Aziraphale captured in the first place.

"Dressed like that he's asking for trouble," Crowley says. 

Aziraphale stares mournfully after the man. "I liked those clothes. It took me _hours_ to find something that looked good on me. Now it's all gone to waste."

"Relax, you look fine. What's for lunch?"

Aziraphale brightens almost instantly. "What would you say to some crepes?"

* * *

The knock at the door surprises Aziraphale; the grand opening to his bookshop isn't for a few hours, and he wasn't expecting many people to turn up, anyway. 

"I'm afraid the shop won't open until Friday," he says as he opens the door. "But if you'd like to pop back after lunch-"

"Relax," Crowley says, grinning widely at Aziraphale. He's clutching a package and a small box to his chest. "It's only me."

"Oh!" Aziraphale smiles and opens the door wider. "In that case, please do come in. I have a lovely little back room where we can sit and chat."

Crowley saunters inside and heads straight for the back room, sprawling on the first sofa he spots like he owns it. Aziraphale takes the seat opposite him, still smiling to himself. He's been meaning to show Crowley around his new bookshop for a while, but he's never managed to get a chance, since both of them are so busy with whatever tasks Heaven and Hell assign to them. Miracles and blessings combined with the organisation of opening a bookshop have meant Aziraphale hasn't had nearly as much time to spend with Crowley as he'd like, no matter how excited he's been to show Crowley the shop before its grand opening. And the few times he _has_ had time to spare, Crowley was off doing his own tasks, or performing some of Aziraphale's blessings. 

He really should get Crowley a "thank you" gift, now that he thinks about it. He's been taking on more than his fair share of the Arrangement lately, in order to give Aziraphale more time to work on the bookshop, and his gratitude alone doesn't feel enough. Perhaps he'll take Crowley out somewhere, or help him set up his own place. He's incredibly grateful Crowley was thoughtful enough to help in his own way, the least he can do is return the favour.

"Got you a little something," Crowley says. He holds out the package and the little box to Aziraphale. "Just a couple of housewarming gifts."

Aziraphale's heart flutters as he accepts the gifts from Crowley, a familiar warmth curling in his chest. "You didn't need to."

"Eh, saw them on my way here, thought you'd like them," Crowley says, waving his hand dismissively. "Not a big deal."

Aziraphale rolls his eyes at Crowley's flippant act. He opens the large package first and gasps when his eyes fall on the large box of chocolates. "Oh, Crowley! These are my favourite! How did you know?"

Crowley shrugs wordlessly, but he preens a little at Aziraphale's words. 

Aziraphale pops one of the chocolates in his mouth, a noise of delight escaping him. "Oh, these are delicious. Crowley, you _must_ try one."

"Nah, I'm alright. Too bitter for my taste." He waves a hand at the smaller box. "Go on, that too."

Aziraphale sets the chocolates aside, promising himself he'll finish them later, and begins to open the small box. He can feel Crowley's eyes on him the whole time, carefully watching his reaction. Waiting to see if he likes it. The knowledge that Crowley cares about Aziraphale's opinion makes Aziraphale's stomach flip pleasantly.

"Oh, _Crowley,"_ Aziraphale gasps as he peers inside the box. He pulls out a white mug, with feathered angel wings as a handle. "It's _adorable._ Where on Earth did you find it?"

"Just saw it in a shop," Crowley says casually, although he looks extremely pleased with himself. "Reminded me of you."

A smile spreads across Aziraphale's face at the words. It's not the first time Crowley has brought Aziraphale something that reminds him of him, and it likely won't be the last, but hearing the words makes him feel warm and fuzzy every time. It's nice, knowing Crowley thinks about Aziraphale even when they're apart. 

"Well, it's lovely," Aziraphale says, running his thumb over the wings. "It was very thoughtful of you to give me this."

"Ah, shut up," Crowley scoffs, although there's no heat in his words. "Just an impulsive buy, really, thought you might like it." He grins at Aziraphale. "It's fitting, with you being an agent of Heaven and all. Since you haven't got any wings yourself, figured these would do, instead."

The smile freezes on Aziraphale's face, and he fights to keep it in place. An irrational pang of pain fills his chest at the words, and his back twinges slightly.

_He doesn't know,_ Aziraphale reminds himself, trying to keep the hurt off his face. _He didn't mean it like that, it's not his fault, he doesn't know._

Crowley frowns at Aziraphale. Apparently he isn't doing a very good job at trying to hide his hurt. "You alright?"

"Yes, of course," Aziraphale says, forcing himself to sound bright. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Just now, you looked… I dunno, sad?" Crowley leans forward in his seat, brow creasing in concern. "Was it something I said?"

"No, of course not, what could you have possibly said, that's ridiculous." Aziraphale laughs nervously. "Just… something that crossed my mind, is all. Nothing important, you needn't worry, it's nothing to be concerned about." He rushes to cut Crowley off before he can press any further. "This is such a lovely mug. I'd hate to put it in the cupboard straight away. I think I'll pop the kettle on, make us some tea. Would you like some?"

Aziraphale doesn't wait for Crowley to answer, already out of his seat and rushing to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He puts his new mug on the counter, and reaches into a nearby cupboard to grab Crowley's usual mug. Behind him, Crowley gets up from the sofa and follows him.

"Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale turns to see Crowley leaning on the door frame, still looking concerned. He forces himself to push away the pang of guilt about making Crowley worry. 

"Yes?"

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Of course," Aziraphale says, voice as chipper as he can manage. "Perfectly fine. Never better. Do you still only take one sugar?"

Crowley regards him suspiciously, but to Aziraphale's relief, he drops the topic. "Yeah, just the one."

Aziraphale hums, letting the familiar motions of making tea soothe the unintentional twinge of pain in his chest. He pours Crowley's first, then his own, using the new mug Crowley gave him. The angel wings don't make a very comfortable handle, he quickly realises, and it takes a moment to figure out how to best hold it. 

He passes Crowley his tea once he's done, and settles back down in his chair, cradling his own mug close to his chest. They sit in silence for a long time, each taking small sips. 

"Is it the mug?" Crowley asks finally. His voice is oddly quiet. 

"What do you mean?"

"The mug. Is it because I got you an angel mug?" Crowley leans forward, trying and failing to hide his worry. Aziraphale can feel his eyes fixed unwaveringly on him. "You know I'm just teasing, right? I know I talk shit about angels a lot, I just… you work for them, I thought it'd be funny. I didn't mean to - to insult you, or whatever, I _know_ you're better than them-"

"Crowley, calm down. It's not the mug," Aziraphale assures. It _is_ the mug, but not for the reasons Crowley thinks. "You didn't insult me. I'm fine."

Crowley looks doubtful. "I've known you for thousands of years, angel. I know when something's wrong."

Aziraphale's chest warms a little at that. "I know. Honestly, though, I'm fine. Just an… unpleasant memory, is all. Nothing that you caused, just something that crossed my mind."

"You sure?"

Aziraphale nods firmly. "I'm sure."

"Do you… want to talk about it?"

Memories of the harsh glint of the sunlight on a blade, searing pain clawing down his back, white robes damp and sticky with blood, flash through his mind. "Not particularly."

"Okay."

They sit in silence again. Crowley leans back against the sofa until he's sprawled across it, head occasionally shifting as he takes in more of the room. Aziraphale keeps his gaze fixed on his mug, searching for something to say to distract him from the memories trying to make their way to the surface.

"Why do you hate angels so much?" is what eventually comes out of his mouth, although Aziraphale doesn't remember deciding to ask that. 

"They're pricks," Crowley scoffs immediately. "Bunch of self-righteous bastards who think they're better than everyone else just 'cause they're licking the Almighty's arse, even though half the time they're no better than my lot."

Aziraphale tries not to wince at the harsh words. Crowley has never _hidden_ how he feels about angels, so he doesn't know what answer he was expecting. "How do you know? Have you ever talked to one?"

"Well, no. But I don't need to. Just look at the way they treat _you._ "

Aziraphale swallows and says nothing. Crowley's casual defence would be flattering, if it weren't for the fact Aziraphale _is_ an angel, and that their treatment of him is his own fault.

"I almost did, once," Crowley says, almost casually, but a bit quieter than before. "Talk to an angel, that is."

Aziraphale lifts his head, but Crowley isn't looking at him. "You did?"

Crowley hums. "Back in Eden. You know, the garden Adam and Eve got kicked out of? There were some angels there, guarding the walls. Trying to make sure no one got in or out." He snorts. "Fat lot of good _they_ did."

Aziraphale winces.

"Anyway, I was gonna talk to one of them, after I got Eve to eat that apple. Got bored, figured, why not? Might be interesting to get an _angelic_ perspective on the situation. See if any of them had anything interesting to say."

Crowley falls silent for a moment, head tilted back against the sofa, obviously lost in the memory. When it doesn't look like he's going to continue, Aziraphale clears his throat and prompts, "So why didn't you?"

Crowley shrugs. "Only saw one angel who didn't look like he'd smite me on the spot, and I didn't see him again after the whole eat-the-apple business. Think he was meant to be guarding the Eastern Gate, but by the time I got up there, he was gone."

Aziraphale's breath catches in his throat. 

"Never did find out what happened to that angel," Crowley continues. "Kinda strange that he just disappeared like that, took _ages_ for the other angels on the wall to go."

"Yes," Aziraphale says faintly. "Very strange, indeed."

"Never saw another angel, after that. Just assumed they decided humans were too _sinful_ to associate with."

"Oh. Sinful. Yes."

"Probably why they got you to do their work for them, now that I think about it. Bastards can't even be bothered to do their own dirty work."

Aziraphale stands abruptly. "Yes, well, it's been lovely chatting with you, Crowley, but I should probably get back to work. Lots to do before the grand opening, after all."

Crowley looks startled. "You alright?"

"Perfectly. Just busy, is all."

"Okay… do you want any help?"

"No, no, that's quite alright." Aziraphale plucks Crowley's mug from his hands and heads to the kitchen to wash it. "You must have things to do, yourself. I wouldn't want to keep you."

For a moment, Crowley is silent. Then he sighs and trudges towards the door, calling out, "See you later, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale doesn't respond, just stands by the sink and feigns cleaning his mug until the door closes behind Crowley. He sighs and shuffles back into the back room, sinking into the sofa and resting his head in his hands.

He could have met Crowley in Eden. If he hadn't given away his sword, he could have met Crowley on the wall surrounding Eden, and Crowley would _know._ He'd know, and Aziraphale wouldn't have to _lie_ to him.

It didn't have to be like this. 

Aziraphale's back aches for the rest of the day.

* * *

Crowley calling to ask Aziraphale to meet him at St. James's Park isn't an unusual occurrence. They've had their Arrangement for so long it's become common to occasionally drop in on one another to ask if the other has any assignments that need taken care of. And with Heaven and Hell sending them more local jobs now they've both settled down full-time in England, the chances of having assignments in similar places have greatly increased. Still, as he approaches the agreed meeting spot, Aziraphale can't help but notice that Crowley looks… tense, somehow. 

"You said you wanted to speak with me?" Aziraphale says, glancing at Crowley out the corner of his eye. The ducks gather around them, quacking expectantly. Aziraphale absently takes off his hat and starts throwing bread to the ducks to placate them. He's made the mistake of not feeding them once. Never again.

"Yeah. I've been thinking. What if it all goes wrong?" Crowley isn't looking at him, which Aziraphale can't help but find odd. He's _always_ had Crowley's undivided attention. "We have a lot in common, you and me."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Aziraphale says. "You're a demon, after all, and I'm…" He trails off, unwilling to outright lie to Crowley even after all these years.

"You know what I mean," Crowley says, and this time there's a hint of playful exasperation in his voice, but it's gone as soon as it arrives. "I need a favour."

"We already have our agreement, Crowley. Stay out of each other's way, lend a hand when needed."

Crowley still won't look at him. "This is something else. For if it all goes… pear-shaped."

"I like pears."

"If it all goes _wrong._ " Crowley's voice sounds tense, then goes quiet, as though he's afraid of being overheard. "I want insurance."

Aziraphale turns to face him properly now, confused and a little worried. Aziraphale has _always_ been the worrier between the two of them. Never, during their entire friendship, has Crowley shown the same concern for their safety as Aziraphale does. "What?"

"I wrote it down," Crowley says. He passes Aziraphale a small piece of paper. "Walls have ears."

Aziraphale unfolds the paper, frowning in confusion.

Then he reads what's on the paper, and his stomach drops.

The words _holy water_ glare up at him, burning in a way he never expected anything holy would. He looks in horror back at Crowley, who still _won't look at him,_ and goes over every interaction they've had that he can remember.

"Well, not walls, trees have ears," Crowley rambles. "Ducks have ears. _Do_ ducks have ears? Must do, that's how they hear other ducks-"

"No." Aziraphale's chest feels tight. "Out of the question."

"Why not?"

Why not? Why _would_ he?

"It would _destroy_ you." He shoves the piece of paper back into Crowley's hands. "I'm not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley."

"Not what I want it for," Crowley hisses, pushing the paper back. "Just insurance."

Aziraphale looks back down at the paper. He feels sick. Insurance to do what? Take out any demons who may come after him, without bothering to get protection against any angels who might arrive on his doorstep to smite him once and for all? Or take _himself_ out of the picture, so no one can hurt him, demon or angel?

And why _now?_ Crowley's _never_ cared about the possible consequences of their friendship! He's always brushed it off with a laugh and a joke about how little Heaven and Hell care about them. What _happened_ since the last time they saw each other that made Crowley change his mind?

No. No, he can't. He _won't_ give Crowley the means to destroy himself. And even if Crowley's telling the truth, even if that really isn't what he wants it for, giving him holy water would just make things even more dangerous for both of them. It would be real, physical proof of their connection, and there would be no way to talk their way out of that. 

"I'm not an idiot, Crowley," he says at last. "Do you know what trouble I'd be in if-" he glances up at the sky once, then twice, as though just _thinking_ about Heaven would make them appear and see Aziraphale willingly talking to a demon- "if they knew I'd been… _fraternising."_

It's the wrong thing to say, and he knows it the second it comes out of his mouth, but he doesn't take it back, even when Crowley finally, _finally,_ turns to look at him.

_"Fraternising?"_

"Well, whatever you wish to call it," Aziraphale hisses, trying to ignore the pounding of his heart. "B-besides, how would I even _get_ it? I can't…"

He can. He can, but he won't. 

"You can go into churches. I can't. And churches _always_ have holy water." Aziraphale can _feel_ Crowley's glare, even through the dark glasses. "This might be life or death, Aziraphale. I _need_ it."

Aziraphale swallows thickly. He can't back down on this. "I said no. That's my final word on the matter."

"Fine, then. I'll find some other human to _fraternise_ with."

Hurt twists in Aziraphale's chest, but he pushes it down. "Of course you will."

"I don't need you."

"And the feeling is mutual!" Aziraphale snaps. "Obviously!"

He snatches the paper from Crowley's hand and tosses it into the water before storming away, not daring to look back. He doesn't want to see if Crowley looks hurt, not if it might make him change his mind.

It's too dangerous. _They're_ already too dangerous. So many things could go wrong, and Aziraphale can't - _won't_ \- be responsible for any of it. Won't be responsible for the death of the first being who's been kinder to him than anyone else has since Eden, even though Aziraphale doesn't deserve that kindness.

He'll find a way to keep them both safe. If that means staying away from Crowley, then so be it, even though the mere thought hurts his very soul. 

Crowley dying because of Aziraphale would hurt more than staying away from him ever could.

* * *

"Now, where were we? Oh, yes." Mr. Glozier's smile is sharp and promises unpleasant things in Aziraphale's very near future. "Killing you."

"You can't kill me," Aziraphale pleads, trying desperately to think of a way to talk himself out of this. The _last_ thing he needs is to explain to Gabriel why he got discorporated by Nazis. "There'll be paperwork."

None of them look confused or even slightly phased by his words - which is a shame, it's usually such a good tactic for buying him time to get out of sticky situations - but the sound of a heavy door closing makes them pause. Aziraphale is just as confused. He doesn't remember anyone else who's supposed to be here tonight. Certainly no one who would keep gasping like the newcomer is doing, as though they're in pain-

_Oh._ Aziraphale recognises the figure hopping down the aisle. He'd recognise him anywhere.

His heart flutters.

"Sorry, consecrated ground," Crowley grits out. Oh, it's been so _long_ since he's heard his voice. "Ohh, it's like... being at a beach in bare feet."

"What are _you_ doing here?" Aziraphale hisses, trying to ignore the way his stomach is suddenly doing flips. Their fight the last time they met was simply _awful_ , so why is Crowley-?

"Stopping _you_ getting into trouble," Crowley replies, like it's supposed to be obvious, as though walking into churches and making absolute fools of themselves to save gullible angels is something demons do every day. 

But how did Crowley know he's...

"I should have known," Aziraphale says. "Of course. These people are working for you." 

It's not true, he knows it's not true the moment he says it.

Crowley denies it anyway. "No! They're a bunch of half-witted Nazi spies running around London blackmailing and murdering people. I just didn't want _you_ to get killed and get left with some boring, stuffy angel as your replacement."

Despite the less than ideal situation they're both in, Aziraphale's lips twitch upwards. It's such a _Crowley_ response, pretending he's doing this to benefit himself in some way, while his ridiculous prancing about says otherwise. 

"Mr. Anthony J. Crowley," Mr. Glozier interrupts. Aziraphale almost forgot he was here. "Your fame precedes you."

"Anthony?" Aziraphale repeats. 

"You don't like it?"

"No, no, I didn't say that. I'll get used to it." Crowley's name is his business, after all, and Aziraphale's opinion really doesn't matter that much. If Crowley likes it, that's enough for him.

Warmth curls in his chest at Crowley's question anyway. 

"The famous Mr. Crowley?" Greta seems almost awed, although not enough to lower her gun. Her eyes run over Crowley's body, and Crowley tips his hat in her direction. "That's such a pity you must both die."

"What does the J stand for?" Aziraphale asks, just to get Crowley's attention _off_ her.

Crowley makes an odd sound. "It's just a J, really."

Aziraphale suppresses a smile. Of _course_ Crowley didn't think any further than that. He's not even surprised-

"Look at _that,_ " Crowley says, distracted. Aziraphale follows his line of sight, and his heart sinks. "Whole fontful of holy water. Doesn't even have guards."

Oh. Of _course_ that's what Crowley is really here for. Why would it be for anything else, after the fight they had?

Wait. Guards?

Does… does Crowley think holy water needs _guards?_

Aziraphale bites back a laugh.

"Enough babbling, kill them both," Mr. Glozier says dismissively, and just like that, Crowley's attention is on them again.

"In about a minute, a German bomber will release a bomb that will land right here," he says. "If you all run away very, very fast, you might not die. You won't enjoy dying. Definitely won't enjoy what comes after." He mutters the last part out the side of his mouth to Aziraphale, and Aziraphale has to suppress a smile.

"You expect us to believe that?" Mr. Glozier sounds smug again. "The bombs tonight will fall on the East End."

"Yes." Crowley leans on one of the pews, trying to balance on the tip of one foot. "It would take a last-minute demonic intervention to throw them off course."

_Last-minute demonic intervention?_

"You're all wasting your valuable running-away time," Crowley continues, pushing off the pew. He sends Aziraphale a pointed look. "And if, in thirty seconds, a bomb _does_ land here, it would be _very_ difficult for my friend and I to survive it, even if one of us _shielded_ the other."

"Shielded?" Is Crowley _actually…?_

"Kill them, they are very irritating." Mr. Harmony doesn't seem concerned about Crowley's generous warning, but then again, it isn't _for_ them. Not really. 

Crowley stops fidgeting long enough to point up dramatically, just as air whistling can be heard overhead. Aziraphale looks up too, searching for _something_ , and as the whistling gets closer, he can feel it - Crowley's magic, impossible to sense if Aziraphale weren't looking for it, wrapping around him like a protective cloak. He glances at Crowley, who's completely unprotected, eyes wide in panic. If he's discorporated… if Hell finds out he killed some Nazis just to save Aziraphale…

Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut and instinctively reaches out to cover Crowley with a miracle of his own just as the bomb hits.

When he finally opens his eyes, the ruins of the church surround him, the Nazis buried almost entirely under the rubble. Crowley is still alive, thank goodness, the destroyed ground no longer burning him. He's cleaning his glasses, frowning down at them, and Aziraphale _should_ be worried that he's given his biggest secret away, but he's too relieved that Crowley is _alive._

"That was very kind of you," Aziraphale says at last, once it becomes apparent Crowley isn't going to break the silence. 

"Hmm?"

"What you did just now."

"Oh. Yeah. That." Crowley's frown deepens. "Wasn't expecting to get out of there _myself._ Didn't think I'd be powerful enough in a church."

"Perhaps you, ah, shielded yourself unconsciously?"

"Maybe. Preserving my own self interest and all that, seems pretty demonic, I guess." Crowley slides his glasses back on, then looks Aziraphale up and down. "You alright?"

"Not a scratch," Aziraphale assures, exhaling quietly in relief. "Thank you."

"Ah, shut up." Crowley grins at him, and it's oh so familiar. Aziraphale's missed that grin. "Can't have you dying on my watch. I'd hate to have to break in a new agent of Heaven if you bit the dust."

_Dust._ Aziraphale's smile falls. "The books! I forgot all the books!"

"Hey, calm down. They're probably just under the rubble somewhere," Crowley says. He struts over to the rubble and begins digging through it.

"As a pile of dust, perhaps. Oh, _how_ could I forget them? It took me _forever_ to collect those," Aziraphale moans.

Crowley grunts behind him. 

"They were first editions, too! Oh, they'll all be blown to-"

"You mean these books?"

Aziraphale turns to see Crowley holding out a bag to him, a satisfied smirk on his face. The bag the Nazis brought with them.

The bag they'd put his books in. 

His heart stutters.

Aziraphale reaches out to take it, staring blankly at Crowley. His fingers brush against Crowley's cool hand. His pulse spikes at the second or two of contact that seems to last an eternity. Crowley pulls his hand back, his thumb gently running across one of Aziraphale's fingers. He's still smirking, but it's… soft, somehow, not smug like one would expect a demon to be. Aziraphale's breath catches in his throat. 

"Figured you'd want these shielded, too," Crowley says, and Aziraphale swears he can see him wink playfully behind those dark glasses. "Lift home?"

He brushes past Aziraphale and walks away, casually stepping over the piles of broken stones like the last few minutes never happened. Like he didn't rush into a church just to save Aziraphale. Like he didn't drop a bomb on them to kill the people who were threatening him. Like he didn't protect Aziraphale and his books from the explosion and never even attempted to protect himself. 

Aziraphale looks down at the bag like it isn't quite real, like it will crumble to ashes the way it should have done when Aziraphale forgot to grab it. 

Crowley didn't forget. Crowley remembered, and cared enough to save them, even though he didn't bother to save himself.

_Oh,_ Aziraphale thinks. _I love you._

"Aziraphale? You coming?"

Aziraphale's head snaps up. Crowley's stopped, looking over his shoulder at him, waiting patiently. 

"Yes. Of course. I'm coming."

Aziraphale stumbles over the rubble, dazed, still clutching the bag tightly to his chest, the contents far more precious than they were minutes ago. Crowley steps forward to meet him, grabbing him by the arm to help stabilise him when he nearly trips. His heart pounds.

"Careful." Crowley grins down at him. "I forgot you can't see as well in the dark as I can."

_I love you,_ Aziraphale thinks as he lets Crowley guide him over the rubble and away from the church.

"I finally got one of those cars everyone's been so obsessed with," Crowley says. "Picked her up brand new in 1935. You'll love it. So much easier to get around."

Crowley tugs Aziraphale towards a black car parked up on the road, practically impossible for mortals to see in the dark. He never lets go of Aziraphale's arm, even when he reaches out to pull open the door on the passenger's side.

Aziraphale climbs into the car without a word, the bag of books resting on his lap. Crowley closes the door for him, then slides into the driver's seat a moment later. He turns and gives Aziraphale a grin.

"Still got that old bookshop?"

Aziraphale can only manage a nod. Crowley makes a sound of affirmation, puts the car into gear, and sets off.

Aziraphale glances down at the bag in his lap, then back at Crowley. His heart is still pounding in his chest, so loud he swears Crowley must be able to hear it. He barely registers the speed at which they're driving, the image of Crowley handing him the bag looping through his mind again and again. 

Crowley must sense Aziraphale staring at him, because he takes his eyes off the road to look back. He smiles, and it's the most beautiful smile Aziraphale has ever seen.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," he teases.

_I love you,_ Aziraphale thinks. It's the only thing he's capable of thinking right now.

The two of them fall silent, Crowley keeping his eyes on the road while Aziraphale returns to staring at the bag on his lap, the words _I love you_ circling his mind every time he thinks about the way their hands brushed together when Crowley handed over the bag.

The realisation, Aziraphale reflects, doesn't feel _new._ It doesn't feel like it's come out of nowhere, startling him the way Crowley likes to do to humans. It feels like it's been there for a long time, a warm presence standing right behind him, waiting patiently for him to turn around and see it. It's… not as scary as he would have assumed. It's comforting. Familiar. Soft.

He's a being of love. Loving things and people is in his nature.

But he's never imagined _this_ is what it feels like to be _in_ love.

"Aziraphale?"

Crowley's voice startles him out of his thoughts. "Yes?"

Crowley's looking at him instead of the road again, concern shining in his eyes. "You okay? You're quiet."

"Yes. Of course."

Crowley makes a noise of disbelief. He reaches over to press his hand against Aziraphale's forehead, and Aziraphale has to take a moment to remember how to breathe.

"What are you doing?"

"Checking you're alright. You're not normally so quiet. Are you in shock? Shock is a bad thing, isn't it? I _did_ just drop a bomb on your head, I guess that could be a shock to anyone…"

A small smile spreads across Aziraphale's face. "A hand on a forehead is for checking for a fever. Not for shock."

"Oh." Crowley retracts his hand. "Yeah, that makes sense. _Are_ you in shock?"

"No, Crowley." Warmth curls in his chest at the concern, blanketing his body. "I'm fine, I promise."

"Okay. Good." Crowley lets out a breath. "That's good. Can't have you collapsing on me after I just saved you. I never know what's going to take you humans out. It's so hard to tell."

Just like that, the warmth vanishes. It shouldn't. Crowley's called him a human countless times throughout the years, this should be no different. Yet, for some reason, it is.

"Yes," Aziraphale says quietly, turning to stare out the window. "It is."

They fall back into silence. Aziraphale tries to keep his eyes on the window and watch the world fly by, but he can't stop his eyes from drifting back to Crowley. Crowley doesn't look back, seemingly content that Aziraphale isn't in danger of dropping dead at any moment.

As they pull up to the bookshop, Crowley slams his foot on the brake, and Aziraphale catches a slight blink-and-you'll-miss-it wince. It's gone before Aziraphale can even think about mentioning it.

"We're here," Crowley says. He gets out of the car and walks around to the passenger side, opening the door for Aziraphale and holding out his hand to help him out. Aziraphale takes it.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

They stand awkwardly together on the pavement. Aziraphale wrings his hands, trying desperately to think of more to say. When he doesn't come up with something quick enough, Crowley moves to get back into the car. He winces again, just slightly, and Aziraphale grabs his arm before he can think about what he's doing. 

"Wait."

Crowley pauses and turns back to Aziraphale.

"I… you don't have to go yet," Aziraphale says. He hopes he doesn't sound desperate. "You can come in, if you'd like. Have some wine."

Crowley raises an eyebrow. "Wine, angel? Really?"

Relief floods Aziraphale's body at the familiar nickname. He'd been so afraid he'd never hear it again... "It's just… it's been so long since I last saw you. We should catch up."

He expects Crowley to make some kind of snarky comment. For him to remind Aziraphale exactly _why_ they haven't seen each other for so long. For him to say this meeting is a one off and drive away and never, ever come back. 

Instead, Crowley shrugs and says, "Yeah. Alright."

Aziraphale lets out a slow breath. He reluctantly releases Crowley's arm and enters the bookshop, relieved when Crowley follows him. The two of them head for the back room, the one that had started to become _their_ room before that awful fight. Crowley flops onto the sofa, his hiss of pain nearly inaudible. Aziraphale doubts he would have caught it if he wasn't listening for it.

"Your feet."

"S'fine. They're fine."

_"Crowley."_

"It's _fine._ It'll go away in a few days. Heal quicker than you humans do, remember?"

Aziraphale swallows thickly. He knows that's not true, not when it comes to holy injuries, but he can't _say_ that. He's supposed to be human, he's not supposed to know these things, and he can't do anything about it. No matter how much he wants to.

"At least take your shoes off," he says at last. "That might make you feel better."

Crowley huffs, but obediently kicks off his shoes, failing to stifle a sigh of relief. He doesn't touch his socks, but he doesn't need to - the church grounds apparently ate away at his shoes and socks like acid, because the bottom of the socks are almost completely burned away. The soles of his feet are an angry red, already beginning to swell and blister, and even though he's seen far worse injuries, the sight still makes Aziraphale feel a little sick.

"Oh, _Crowley…"_

"It's fine," Crowley says, even though it's so blatantly _not_ fine, and the proof is right in front of him. "You said you had wine? Could do with some wine. Bet it would hurt less if I had wine."

Aziraphale suppresses a sigh and nods, retreating to the kitchen without another word. Crowley hisses quietly behind him, and his heart aches.

He retrieves a bottle of wine and a glass, then pauses, biting his lip. It's _his_ fault Crowley is in this situation. If he hadn't been so foolish, so naive, Crowley would have never come anywhere near that church. He never would have gotten hurt for Aziraphale's sake. The least he can do is try to make Crowley feel better.

Faintly, Crowley mutters a curse in the other room, and Aziraphale's mind is made up.

Right. First thing's first: cool water. It's been a long time since he's had to treat a burn, but he's almost certain he's supposed to start by cooling the burn with water. If nothing else, it should hopefully take some of the pain away.

He rummages through the kitchen until he manages to find a bowl just large enough for Crowley's feet, and fills it with cool water, running his hand through it to make sure it's the right temperature. He sets it gently on the side, careful to make sure none of the water spills out.

Okay. Next, first aid kit. He's sure he has one lying around _somewhere_ , although he can't remember what's in it, or even what's _supposed_ to be in a first aid kit. It's been such a long time since he's had to use onel. He'll just have to hope everything he needs is in there. The burn will need bandaging, right? Surely it should have bandages, if nothing else.

He finds the first aid kit shoved to the back of a cupboard, and sure enough, there's bandages in it, although that's about it. The only other thing in the kit is two old pieces of cloth. He could use one to clean the burn, perhaps? And another to dry it once he's done, so the bandages won't get soaked? He's heard cloth tends to stick to burns, but Crowley's a demon, so it should be fine. It's all he's got, so two cloths it is. 

Is there anything he's forgetting? Is there something else he's supposed to apply to Crowley's feet, or is this everything? He can't remember, it's been so long-

"Satan, angel, how long does it take to get a glass of wine?"

Aziraphale glances down at the supplies he's gathered. It will have to do. He doesn't want Crowley to be in pain much longer.

Carrying all his supplies is harder than he expects, but he manages. He carefully staggers back into the living room with the bottle tucked under his arm, first aid kit and glass clutched between his fingers in one hand, and the bowl balanced on his other.

Crowley looks up when he enters, pretending he wasn't nosing through the stack of papers Aziraphale had left dumped on the table, and raises an eyebrow. "Why couldn't you leave some of that in the kitchen and go back for it when your hands are free like a normal person?"

He reaches out to "helpfully" take the bottle and the glass from Aziraphale, and takes another look at the first aid kit and bowl in Aziraphale's hands. "That stuff won't work, you know. It's a holy burn. It won't heal it."

"No, but it might help with the pain," Aziraphale says. He kneels down beside Crowley's feet, setting the first aid kit and bowl beside him.

"I told you, it's fine. It doesn't even hurt that bad."

"I don't believe that for a second."

Crowley waves one hand dismissively, popping open the wine bottle. "I've had worse."

"Still, I would like to try treating it. To ease the pain, if nothing else."

Crowley sighs dramatically, pouring the wine into the glass. "Fine, fine. Knock yourself out."

Aziraphale sighs in relief. He'd been afraid Crowley would fight him on this, and he doesn't have the energy to argue tonight. He gently lifts Crowley's left foot by the ankle, peeling the sock off and lowering his foot into the bowl. Above him, Crowley hisses and takes a long, noisy sip of his wine.

He repeats the process with the right foot, placing the socks aside to dispose of them later, and retrieves one of the cloths from the first aid kit. He dips the cloth in the bowl, then lifts one of Crowley's feet and begins to clean.

Crowley flinches. He takes another noisy sip and digs his fingers into the sofa, but he doesn't pull away. He lets Aziraphale clean the burn without a single complaint, even though he doesn't think it will do anything.

Aziraphale's heart aches. Even when he's in pain, Crowley's willing to indulge him.

He keeps his eyes fixed on Crowley's foot. Washing and cleaning the burn won't help it heal, he knows that. The only thing that could help it heal would be a miracle, and Aziraphale isn't supposed to do that. He's supposed to be a human with a limited amount of miracles, miracles he certainly can't afford to waste on a demon. Using one now could raise suspicion, especially after the one he used earlier. 

He shouldn't heal him. He _shouldn't._

Crowley hisses again.

It's not fair.

Aziraphale risks glancing up. Crowley isn't looking at him. He's staring determinedly at the wall to his left, trying desperately to hide the way his face is scrunching up in pain. Pain that wouldn't even be there if it weren't for him.

Aziraphale lowers his eyes. Takes a deep breath.

And puts the tiniest miracle on the cloth.

Crowley inhales sharply.

Aziraphale tenses.

Then Crowley lets out a slow huff, like he usually does when he's trying to hide the fact he's in pain, and Aziraphale relaxes again. 

Good. He didn't notice.

It doesn't take long for the miracle to take effect. It's nothing big, just a little something to ease the pain and speed up healing slightly, but it seems to make a difference. Crowley sighs in relief, relaxing against the sofa, and he sips at the wine more leisurely. When Aziraphale switches to his other foot, the most he does is tense his leg slightly, before going limp again as the miracle takes effect.

Aziraphale's glad it's helping, he really is.

But he can't bring himself to be happy about it. How can he, when he knows he has the power to heal him completely?

"Well, what do you know?" Crowley says at last, while Aziraphale is patting his feet dry with the second cloth. "It did help."

He smiles down at Aziraphale with a kindness he doesn't deserve.

Aziraphale's mouth goes dry. "I'm sorry I can't do more," he says. 

"Eh, just don't go ambushing any more Nazis in churches. That'll probably help." Crowley must see the look on Aziraphale's face, because he quickly adds, "I'm _kidding."_

Aziraphale makes a noncommittal noise and bandages Crowley's feet silently.

Neither of them say anything else. Aziraphale finishes bandaging Crowley's feet, snatches up the socks before Crowley can attempt to fix them with a miracle, and packs away his supplies while Crowley slips his shoes on. If he notices how quiet and tense Aziraphale is, he's generous enough to not mention it.

"You should probably think about heading home," Aziraphale says eventually. He rises to his feet, first aid kit in one hand, bowl in the other. "It's getting late."

"Yeah. S'pose I should." Despite his words, Crowley hesitates, like he doesn't want to leave. Aziraphale swallows.

"Well, goodnight then. Drive safe."

"Yeah. Night."

It feels awkward and stilted, so unlike their usual farewells, but Aziraphale can't think of a way to change that, so he doesn't try. Crowley heads for the front door, says goodbye once more, and leaves Aziraphale standing alone in the back room, still holding the first aid kit and bowl.

He silently heads back to the kitchen, putting the bowl back where he found it. He glances out the window, even though he can't see a thing, then stares down at the first aid kit still clutched in his hands. Outside, a car - Crowley's, most likely - tears away, screeching down the road until it presumably turns a corner, and the ungodly noise disappears.

The bookshop is left in silence. 

Aziraphale slams the first aid kit onto the counter.

_He's_ the reason Crowley got hurt. If Crowley knew the truth, Aziraphale would have been able to heal him properly. He wouldn't have had to let him walk away, still in pain, still with a lot of healing to do. He'd be able to return Crowley's favours, give back as much as he gets, instead of sitting and silently taking everything whilst giving nothing in return.

But he can't. He can't, because Crowley _doesn't_ know the truth, and Aziraphale has no idea how to tell him after so long. Crowley _hates_ angels, he's made that crystal clear over the thousands of years they've known each other. What would he say if Aziraphale told him the truth? It would destroy their friendship. Crowley would never talk to him again. And it's selfish, he knows it's selfish, but Aziraphale can't bear the thought of that happening. 

He doesn't want to go another century without his best friend ever again.

Aziraphale sighs, fiddling with the edge of his waistcoat in an attempt to keep himself from picking at his nails. His last manicurist kept telling him off for doing that, and he's been doing his best to heed her advice.

None of this would have happened if he hadn't lost his wings. Crowley would know what he is, he'd be able to freely use his miracles in front of Crowley, be able to _heal_ him, and, most importantly, he wouldn't have to lie. The lying is the worst part.

But what is he supposed to do? He has no idea how to begin explaining the truth to Crowley, but he can't keep it a secret forever. Armageddon will arrive eventually, and Crowley will see him on the battlefield, on the side of the angels, and he'll figure it out. That would be far, far worse than just telling him himself.

But if he tells him, Crowley might-

Aziraphale takes a long, deep breath.

Maybe… maybe he'll wait a little longer. Just until he gets his wings back. Yes, that sounds like a good plan. He'll earn Heaven's forgiveness, get his wings back, and everything will be alright. He'll tell Crowley everything, explain the misunderstanding, and they'll hopefully laugh it off and remember it fondly in a few millennia. Yes, that's what he'll do. It will give him time to plan exactly how he's going to explain everything.

Aziraphale puts the first aid kit back in the cupboard he found it, a lot more at ease now he has an idea of what to do.

Everything will be okay once he gets his wings back. He's sure of it. 

He just has to have faith.

* * *

He's waiting in the car when Crowley finally returns. His entire body is tense, and he has to rub his hands on his trouser legs to avoid picking at his nails. His stomach twists over and over at the thought of what he's about to do, but he has no choice. Anything is better than risking losing Crowley.

It takes Crowley a moment to realise he's there. He does a double take when he sees Aziraphale sitting in the passenger's seat. "What are you doing here?"

"I needed a word with you."

"No, I mean, how did you get in my car?"

Shoot. He forgot he's not supposed to be able to miracle himself into Crowley's car. "I, er… you left the car unlocked."

Crowley frowns. "I did?"

"Well, you didn't unlock the car when you got in just now, did you?"

Crowley glances back at the car door, as though just looking at it will verify Aziraphale's claim. "Huh. I guess I didn't."

Aziraphale lets out a quiet breath. Thank goodness.

"Go on, then. You broke into my car for a reason-"

"I didn't _break into-"_

"-so what's so important you couldn't just call?"

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. "I work in SoHo. I hear things. I hear that you're setting up a… caper... to rob a church."

Crowley rolls his eyes behind his glasses, as though this isn't important, as though doing this won't put his very _life_ in danger. And while this isn't the first time Crowley has shown little to no concern over his own wellbeing, this time his dismissal makes Aziraphale sick to his stomach.

He'd planned to be logical about this. To give a reasonable argument as to why Crowley should reconsider. But watching him roll his eyes at Aziraphale's words, like they don't matter, he can't help but beg. "Crowley, it's too dangerous. Holy water won't just kill your body. It will destroy you completely."

"You told me what you think," Crowley says bitterly, "105 years ago."

"And I haven't changed my mind. But I can't have you risking your life." Aziraphale's heart leaps into his throat at the mere thought. "Not even for something dangerous. So…"

With shaking hands, Aziraphale pulls out the tartan thermos. He can barely bring himself to touch it, as though _he_ would be the one destroyed if so much as a single drop spills.

There are so many ways robbing a church can go wrong. So many ways it could endanger Crowley. From the humans being a little too careless with the precious contents, to catching the attention of the wrong people, both Above and Below.

Forcing his hands to still, he holds out the thermos.

Crowley's eyebrows raise.

"You can call off the robbery," Aziraphale says, trying to control his trembling voice. "Don't go unscrewing the cap."

He promised himself he would _never_ give anything so dangerous to Crowley.

But he'd rather make sure he receives it safely and without any unwanted attention than allow him to risk his life trying to obtain it himself.

Slowly, Crowley reaches for the thermos, as though it will disappear if he moves too fast. He holds it as gently as Aziraphale did as he takes it. Every tiny movement makes the water inside slosh, and every time Aziraphale's heart threatens to stop. But the cap is screwed on tight, Aziraphale made sure of it, and no water leaks out.

"Is this the real thing?" Crowley asks, eyes fixed on the thermos.

Aziraphale swallows. "The holiest."

"The _holiest?"_ Crowley's attention snaps back to Aziraphale. "As in, an angel…"

Aziraphale nods.

"You stole holy water from Heaven?" Crowley's voice is soft, awed. "For _me?"_

He didn't. Even thinking about stealing from Heaven makes Aziraphale's back sting. But he can't tell Crowley that. Can't say he blessed that water himself, praying frantically that Crowley will never have to use it, and if he does, that no harm will come to him. So instead, he nods again.

Crowley stares at him, mouth slightly agape, and something in the air shifts. Aziraphale almost always has Crowley's full attention, but this feels different, somehow. His eyes widen behind his glasses, and he shifts in his seat until his entire body is facing Aziraphale.

Something has changed, shifted ever so slightly. Aziraphale has no idea what. He can only hope it's nothing bad. 

"Should I say thank you?" Crowley asks breathily. 

They've known each other for over 4000 years, and Crowley has never once said 'thank you' to him. 

"Better not," he says.

"Well, can I drop you anywhere?"

Crowley's offer means more. Although he doesn't know how, he's sure he knows what Crowley's really asking.

And he knows he can't accept it. Not now. Not while he's like this.

"No, thank you."

Crowley's face falls. 

"Oh, don't look so disappointed." Aziraphale tries to smile at him, but it feels weak. "Perhaps one day we could… I don't know. Go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz."

He hopes so. He really, really hopes so.

"I'll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go," Crowley repeats, more insistently. The offer makes the air heavy. Whatever it is that has shifted will shift even further, depending on his answer, and Aziraphale desperately wants to say yes. 

But he can't. Not while he's like this, wingless and unable to give as much as he takes. It wouldn't be fair. And it's too dangerous, anyway. His friendship with Crowley is a big enough risk as it is, and if Heaven finds out, he'll be in so much trouble, and he'll _definitely_ never get his wings back. What is he supposed to do if that happens? He can't expect Crowley to be okay with settling for a damaged angel. 

He thinks about the night at the church, when he let Crowley walk away, knowing he had the ability to heal him fully.

Crowley deserves better than that.

He deserves someone whole, someone who's not desperately trying to regain a piece of themselves they've lost. He deserves someone who can put just as much in as he can, who has all of themselves to give, instead of just pieces. Someone who can heal him when he's hurt. 

Aziraphale can't be any of that. 

Not until he gets his wings back.

He wants to say yes. Desperately. But it's too soon, too fast. Aziraphale can't give him what he deserves yet.

No matter how much he wants to, he cannot say yes.

"You go too fast for me, Crowley," he says instead.

The weight in the air settles reluctantly back into place.

Aziraphale doesn't wait for a response. He gets out of the car and begins to walk home. Every step that takes him further away from the car feels painful. It takes all his strength, every ounce of his willpower, to keep walking, to wait until he can be what Crowley deserves.

He can only hope Crowley decides to wait with him. 

And that he'll still want him once he sees the truth.

* * *

He thought he had time. 

Every time he worries about Crowley finding out the truth, he tells himself the same thing: he has time. He'll get his wings back, get Heaven off his back, and tell Crowley everything. Maybe not now, maybe not even soon, but eventually. It doesn't matter when. He has time. 

And then Crowley calls him, and suddenly he doesn't have time. 

Because Armageddon is finally approaching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm like 98% sure what Aziraphale does to heal Crowley's feet is bad first aid practice, but it would be bad first aid practice anyway, since you're apparently supposed to go to the hospital if you burn your feet. We're already violating protocol, what's a little more?
> 
> Also I got sick of googling "history of burn creams" and just getting the history of burns for the 20th time. So fuck it they're not humans anyway they can do as much bad first aid practice as they want


End file.
